Me Too

Trigger Warning: Non-/Dubious Consent. Proceed with caution.


As many of you may have noticed, over the past few days, social media has been flooded with statuses from incredibly strong and brave women and men coming forward about their experiences with sexual assault, harassment, and the like.

My strong urge to post a similar status was stifled by the shame I felt in labeling myself as a victim when I saw one of my dear friends post #MeToo, because I know she was raped. I know the details. She vehemently protested. She said no. Another friend who posted #MeToo was drugged and woke up in a parking lot. Another friend of mine who posted a status was assaulted by a family member at a young age.

My Facebook feed has been overwhelmed with statuses; many of the people who posted, I already knew about. Some new faces were brave enough to come forward about their experiences. Some people gave details, others didn’t. The fact that there were so many women on my Facebook feed (and a few men) who had been victims of sexual harassment and/or assault was incredibly moving, and it speaks to just how big of a problem rape culture is in our society.

I did not add my name to the list of those who posted about their experiences. And the only reason I’m mentioning it here is that my identity is, for the most part, secure. Not many people read this blog, anyway. I just feel like I need to get it off my chest.

If you’ve read previous blog posts, you may know that I had an emotionally-manipulative affair with a friend of mine where I regretted everything I did as I was doing it. I attempted to stop the whole thing several times and was coerced back into it. I always look back on it and question if that counts as anything. I went through with it. I did say no, but I was in a bad place and eventually caved. Even though I didn’t want to. I feel like it’s skimming the line of consent, but I don’t feel comfortable accusing someone so close to me of something morally dubious, when they may not have even known at the time that I didn’t want to participate. Even though I thought I made it perfectly clear where I stood.

I suppose I wasn’t clear enough.

But besides that, sexual harassment hasn’t been entirely abundant in my life, but I can think of a few instances where I’ve been even mildly harassed.

A few weeks back, while I was sword-fighting in the park with friends, a group of men off to the side were catcalling at us and yelling out, “I got a sword right here for you, baby! It’s ready!” It wasn’t directed specifically at me, but at all of us. It was uncomfortable.

When I was in high school, I went to New York with my theatre department and a man on the subway grabbed me. I was at the back of the group and no one noticed. I didn’t tell anyone.

A few days ago, a man approached me and a friend outside my dorm building late at night, told us he had an erection and that “you ladies are helping it,” proceeded to grope himself, and wouldn’t leave us alone.

When I was young, a boy in my class would chase me around, pin me down, and try to kiss me. This was a reoccurring thing that eventually turned violent.

Plenty of other instances that I won’t get into, but I think the fact that I’m nervous to post #MeToo on any of my social media platforms because I question the validity of my own experiences says what’s wrong about the recognition of sexual assault and harassment in this day and age.

That’s all I have to say for now.


Sam, signing off.


Forgetting to Feel

As I was walking back to my dorm a bit ago tonight, I passed by a planter bed by the side of the road near the Chicago River. The sight of the planter bed, in the relative-dark, with the chill in the air combined with a slight humidity that foretold of possible rain, surrounded by the twinkling lights of the city at night, brought back a memory of myself, two years younger, two years less experienced. I was walking home late at night, as I have a tendency to stroll at ungodly hours, and it had begun to rain. Usually delighted at the prospect of any form of precipitation, for some reason, that night, I was pushed over the edge. Overcome with a sudden surge of emotions, I burst into tears. Great, heaving sobs, would be more accurate. I had to reroute myself and go down a side street, about a block south of the river, and sit on the edge of a planter bed, because I was so overwhelmed that I couldn’t even stand up, let alone walk.

I think it was close to an hour that I sat there under the deluge of rain and emotions, sobbing for no real reason, but I was thankful for the rain; because it drowned out the ugly sounds of my turmoil and made it impossible to distinguish my tears from the rainwater.

Looking back on it, I’m both disgusted with and envious of myself, because while in my second year of university I was a complete mess emotionally, at least I was feeling something. I was able to, however unwillingly, let my emotions get the best of me from time to time, and I’d have a good cry, and then, sometimes, afterward, I’d feel a little rejuvenated. If I was lucky, anyway.

I’m not an inherently emotional person. By nature, I can feign compassion and empathy when societal obligation dictates that I do so to avoid coming off as a complete asshole. I consider myself in tune with myself physically and mentally, though I’ve always struggled with my emotional side.

You all know this by now, as I’ve mentioned this exhaustively in numerous blog posts.

Sometimes I reckon I’m just saying it to remind myself of that fact.

But thanks for bearing with me, anyway.

I spoke with my partner around a week ago about emotions, and how I often describe my emotional struggles that have mounted over the past several years with a visual representation of a dam. The dam is very tall and reasonably strong, and it’s been built higher and higher over the years. The water behind the dam rises and falls, as it tends to do. But sometimes it rises to the very top, and while it’s being held back just fine, it’s putting a lot of strain on the dam. Sometimes I’d just really like to let some of the water flow over the top just to relieve some of the pressure. But that’s something I struggle to do. Usually, my go-to fix is to fortify the dam and build it higher, but I can only do so much.

A few years ago, the water sloshed over the top of the dam quite often. More often than I’d ever care to admit. And while I was in a spectacularly shitty place a few years ago, I now consider that a better place than I’m in now. I don’t know if it’s the medication I’m on, or if it’s just me fortifying the dam more than I ever have, or what it is, but the water is rising and the pressure is building…

But somehow the pressure isn’t quite as intense as before. It’s hard to explain.

The tension is there. The pressure exists. The need to let something burst is there, but it’s… it’s not prominent. It’s not a constant throb in my chest or a pounding in my head or a twitch in my fingers. It’s a dull ache in the pit of my stomach, now, like a void that just sucks every good feeling I could ever possibly have out of my system. A black hole for emotions.

I don’t feel anything.

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be truly, consistently happy.

Sure, I’ll have my moments, early in the morning in the kitchen with a friend, making pancakes and throwing chocolate chips at each other, or getting back from a productive day at the gym to bask in the newly-released endorphins, or driving in my car with my brother with the windows down and singing along to Rock the Casbah; those times, I get a glimpse of happiness that isn’t followed immediately by some unnamed dread caused by something I’m sure I’m supposed to be anxious about. But that little bit of happiness is hard-won. And it takes a lot out of me.

I don’t really know where I’m going with this. I’m miserable, as always, and I wanted to write about it. So, there. Thanks for reading.

Tonight is a bad night. I might be on again later to waste time and give my fingers something to do rather than twitch or hold a cigarette.

Sam, singing off.

Pro Procrastinator

always do this.

I have my orchestral placement audition tomorrow at like 10 in the morning. The excerpts for said audition, I’ve had for around a month now. Guess when I started practising them?

Two days ago.

I always do this to myself. I wait until the last possible moment to start preparing for things like this, and then I find myself scrambling to get my shit together in the last precous hours.

It makes absolutely no sense to me that even though I know I should just suck it up and look at my shit before it’s too late, I refuse to. It’s weird, because even a month before auditions, I’m too anxious to look at the audition material. It makes no sense! I’m too anxious, like I feel like I’m going to throw up and faint, just thinking about looking at audition materials, a fucking month before the actual auditions. WHICH IS WHAT I’M SUPPOSED TO DO.

And then I put it off and put it off and I feel even worse every subsequent day that I put it off but I keep putting it off until, here I am, the day before my audition, freaking the fuck out because I’ve got like five of the excerpts pretty down-pat but the remaining two are giving me a fucking hernia just thinking about them.

And now I’m having visions of me in the audition room having a panic attack and fainting and/or vomiting in front of the string faculty and my maestro. Fucking fabulous.

The thing is that I’m considered “The Comeback Queen” in my family, because I’ve always been a procrastinator and I’ve always somehow ended up on top. With exams, with auditions, with everything. But that was back in Iowa where I was literally one of the best in my region and age-range. Now I’m in Chicago, at a school where people come from all over the world, and it’s competitive. It’s my fourth year here and I still feel like I’m at the bottom. Because it hasn’t hit me yet, that it’s better to just suck it up and push through and be prepared early on so that you don’t feel like you’re going to pass out due to nervousness at your fucking placement auditions. It’s not even a stressful audition! If you don’t care where you sit in the orchestra, it’s not stressful at all! You’re already in the orchestra, you’re guaranteed a spot, there’s nothing to be afraid of!

I’ve botched auditions before. I’ve heard other people botch auditions before. It’s really not that big of a deal. I just make it into a big deal by not being prepared and then pushing all of this shit on myself at the last fucking minute. Like I always do.

I can’t keep doing this. On top of everything else going on in my life, I really don’t need to be adding extra pressure where It’s completely avoidable.


Okay. Rant over. I’m going to go practise a bit more. Then maybe go have a cigarette. Then practise some more.

Sam, signing off.

New Digs

Currently, I’m sitting at an unfamiliar table in an unfamiliar sitting room, watching the city bustle outside a window facing a direction I’m not yet used to. I’m enjoying the view with a raspberry jam-smothered English muffin and a piping hot cup of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. Every click of a key on my laptop reverberates off of the walls, here. This room is cold, and a bit bare.

School is nearly back in session, which means I’ve made my long-awaited return to the Windy City. The move-in process yesterday was arduous, as per usual, but well worth it; my room is nearly put-together now, and the kitchen (I have a kitchen this year) is functional.

It’s going to take a bit of work and a bit of time for this place to feel like a home to me.

Complaints thus far:

  • The stove is electric
  • The sofa in the sitting room is kind of broken
  • There are paint chips on my walls
  • A drawer in my closet is broken
  • The walls are incredibly thin
  • There is very little practical closet space (even for me)
  • The bed is shite
  • The internet kind of sucks

Some of those are just things you have to deal with whilst living in a dorm, even if it’s an apartment-style arrangement. Here are the good things:

  • I have my own fucking kitchen
  • My room is nice and small, big enough for me, not big enough for me to allow it to get cluttered
  • The sitting room is fantastic (aside from the broken sofa)
  • The layout is prime
  • Two bathrooms (for four people)
  • Lots of kitchen cupboards
  • There are bathtubs
  • The view is superb
  • My room isn’t near any train tracks
  • There’s only one set of elevators, and there are a lot of elevators

It’s going to take me a while to get used to the electric stove. There’s also a dishwasher, but I don’t trust the regular appliances that dorm buildings supply; I’m not going to risk flooding my new apartment because I’m too lazy to wash my dishes myself.

My girlfriend came along with me yesterday to help me move in and to stay a couple nights. It was a precious scene, coming out of my room in amidst my unpacking to see her sitting on the counter and looking through what pathetically little I had for pantry items and making a grocery list. We went shopping and got things for her to make some of the best pancakes I’ve ever had despite not having actual sugar and using brown sugar as a substitute.

My fridge is sufficiently stocked with things that I know I’ll eat, I have breakfast essentials, tea (the meal, not just the beverage) essentials, coffee essentials, and some dinner stuff. I might run back to the store later for bread… Maybe. Because I sometimes like sandwiches. And I need to go to the store anyway because I definitely didn’t get any salad dressing or other fixings, and I definitely got romaine.

Overall, I’m happy. I’m planning to have my suitemates from last year, who are my closest Chicago friends, come over Sunday evening for a nice unwind before Hell Week (orientation week for the fresh meat — two of my friends are Orientation Leaders), some nice home-cooked dinner, a couple drinks… It’ll be fun.

After that, I’ll be spending all of my time getting ready for my auditions later next week. One on Thursday, and one on Saturday. I should get started on that today. After I hang up all my posters in my room.

This was my first update in quite a while; hope it was worth the wait, and worth the read. Stay tuned for more updates as more shit happens in my life. See you next time.

Sam, signing off.

Keyboard Warrior’s Wrath

In the age of technology where everyone with access to a smartphone or computer is given a virtual stage on which to voice their concerns with the world, we are bound to stumble across the occasional “Keyboard Warrior,” standing on their little glorified, digital soapbox in an otherwise-peaceful comment thread under a perfectly innocent video posted to Facebook, just trying to shout loud enough for their voice to be heard over the rest. Hiding behind a computer screen gives people a perfect opportunity to pick fights with those who disagree with them, and they cherish the attention; I’m certain of it. They adore getting a rise out of people.

I came across a video earlier this week. As many of us know, June 26th marked two years since the Supreme Court ruled same-sex marriage legal in all 50 States in my country. Being queer myself, it could be said that this moment in history was a pivotal one for me; it was an eye-opener, certainly. I had been mostly-closeted since about sixth grade, and had come out as bi in high school (even though the label didn’t quite fit me, but that’s beside the point). I’d only told my mother later on in high school that I was bi so she would stop making rather absurd comments about “dykes” and so on while in my presence, because while I am generally quite adept at being unaffected by such remarks, hearing those things from the woman who raised me struck a chord. When same-sex marriage was legalised in all of America, I celebrated privately; my father sat across the sitting room and muttered about “the gays” and how “they get all these rights” and how “they’re all going to hell.” My mother looked like her lunch hadn’t agreed with her as she gave me a far-too-obvious look of sympathy, as if she were silently apologising for my father’s bigotry; which was ridiculous, because it was something I grew up with and had grown used to. But I ignored both of them and celebrated inwardly, smiled to myself and pretended I was laughing at something on my phone.

Anyway, I mentioned a video.

The video was on Facebook, and it was a brief story on two elderly women who’d been in love with each other since they were young. They’d been life partners for… I don’t know, almost fifty years? Something like that. They waited until same-sex marriage was legalised so that they could get married in their home state, and so they got married two years ago. It was a touching video.

I didn’t know what the hell I was expecting when I went to read the comments. Of course there were countless messages of support and adoration, people tagging friends and saying “#goals” and so on. But then, of course, because there has to be someone on every thread to ruin a good, innocent thing, there were the Christians.

Let me pause for a moment here, because saying “here come the Christians” is, of course, a very broad statement that implies my contempt for religious folk. That’s not what I intend to portray in the least.

I was raised Lutheran. Baptised in the Lutheran Church. Went to Lutheran Church. Was confirmed in the Lutheran Church. Picked up quite a few Catholic habits along the way. I have two sets of rosary beads; one of which belonged to my late grandmother on my father’s side, and was blessed by the Pope (the last one). I know all my prayers, and I want the beginning of the Hail Mary in Latin tattooed on the inside of one bicep.

My relationship with God is a strange one; it’s not that I really, really believe in a higher power. I am a person of science. I don’t think there’s a giant being in the sky who whipped us all up out of clay and breathed life into man, took one of his ribs and from it made a woman. I don’t think anything otherworldly happens to us when we die; I believe that, as energy can neither be created nor destroyed, when our consciousness ceases to exist, what makes us up physically is given back to the universe. Our bodies in the ground deteriorate and feed the Earth, giving new life to vegetation. We are in the Earth, in all the creatures of Earth, in the air in our atmosphere, and beyond. That’s what I believe.


I am not so closed-minded as to say there is no higher power at all whatsoever. Who knows? Really, none of us know. The thing I love about science is that there are always questions. With religion, it’s just like, “hey, how did this happen?” and the answer is something like “well God did this and this and this.” And there are no further questions. I like thinking and wondering and exploring and finding things. But that’s just me.

I’ll still go to church if someone asks me to go with them. I’ll take communion and sing the hymns and say my prayers and be sincere about it. I think religion is interesting, and I like praying, because it’s medetative. I’m not praying to a divine being to take away all my problems or bless me with a bit of luck or ask that the Cubs win the World Series again. That’s not what I’m doing; it’s a self-medetative sort of thing that gives me a chance to focus on something repetitive and be introspective, and I enjoy it.

And I’ll tell you what, if there is a God, then my God loves every one of his children, regardless of race, religion, gender identity, sexual orientation, or any other factor that never fails to divide us as human beings.

But I’m getting carried away here. Back to the comment section of this Facebook video. There was a woman, and her comment was only near the top because of the amount of backlash she got. She was very religious. Okay, not a problem. She was very, very against same-sex marriage. Alright, also not a problem. Just like with my father, who now knows I’m a bit gay, I always say that if you don’t agree with how I am, that’s totally fine. You’re not obligated to. You don’t have to. We can disagree and still be civil. That’s just the professional and decent thing to do. As long as neither of us are hurting ourselves or one another or other people, then we can respect our differences, put them aside, and move on.

Some people don’t seem to think that way.

This woman was hurling insult after insult, referencing scripture like she had all the books memorised, speaking God’s word like she was the big man himself. And you know what? I fucking loved her enthusiasm. But the way she went about telling us that our lifestyle is wrong, about how this is Satan’s temptation, about how we are being blinded by lust and pursuing the sins of the flesh and how we are ABOMINATIONS (every time she used that word it was in all capital letters, I shit you not), and how we better heed her word because she is delivering God’s warning and come judgement day when we stand before the Lord and he asks us why we didn’t heed his warning and “this very comment section scrolls in the air before your very eyes” (again, I shit you not), and we’ll burn in Hell and blah blah blah.


If it were just one or two or maybe even three comments, I would have let it go. But Holy Hell, did this woman like to type.

I’ll say this; if God wants to send me some warnings, he’d better find a messenger with better grammar. Good Lord, I was almost more upset by her spelling and punctuation (or lack thereof) than I was by her message.

I didn’t reply to her comments. Obviously. I don’t want to get caught up in that mess. But I read quite a few of them, and a bit of the back-and-fourth between her and some other commenters who were pulled in by her baiting.

It would seem that many Christians forget about the whole, “do not judge lest ye be judged” thing. They are reminded about it and they really enjoy coming back at that with, “oh, okay, you tell the judge next time you’re in a courtroom not to judge, and then see how much jail time you get!”

That, firstly, is bullshit. The judicial system- the law system is in place for a reason; to keep knuckleheads like you lot safe, despite the fact that you’re an asshole. You’re just a non-violent asshole. Since when was being gay violent? We’re actually quite nice people. It’s kind of the whole point. We love each other. We wave rainbow flags around and put glitter all over ourselves to go march through the streets and we hug everyone we can. We got a law passed so that we could love each other to full capacity. Pretty much the opposite of violent.

When it comes to God’s Commandments, HE is the only one who can judge people when it’s their time to approach the pearly gates. THAT IS WHAT THAT MEANS. YOU cannot sit there at your desk, hiding behind your computer screen, and go all Keyboard Warrior on everyone’s asses and tell everyone they’re going to Hell because they are in love with someone.

I’m pretty sure God would rejoice in seeing his children living happy and fulfilled lives, spreading love and getting love and raising beautiful children to be repsectful and responsible and to love their neighbours and NOT BE ASSHOLES TO STRANGERS IN A COMMENT THREAD ONLINE. REGARDLESS OF GENDER IDENTITY OR SEXUAL ORIENTATION.

One of the things the woman said that I wanted to expand upon had to do with lust, and the sins of the flesh. In addition to this, a woman and a woman, or a man and a man, can’t reproduce.


For the first bit. I am asexual. I am genderqueer (still discovering myself, mostly androgynous), asexual, and pan-romantic (I am purely intellectually (emphasis on intellectually) and emotionally attracted to people; regardless of what they identify as). I have never experienced physical or sexual attraction to anyone. The only physical relationship I’ve been in (past the kissing/hand-holding/cuddling stuff) was something that happened that I wasn’t 100% (or even 50%) into, that I tried to stop numerous times, and which was influenced by a great deal of emotions that I couldn’t control because of several medications I was on at the time.

Emotionally manipulated and biologically (chemically) compromised. I like to pretend it didn’t happen.

Anyway, I’m asexual. So you can bet you arse I’m not blinded by lust or sins of the flesh. My love is probably more pure than a lot of God-fearing Christian’s.

The second notion, regarding the fact that two women/two men can’t reproduce. This is true; but an infertile woman or a sterile man wouldn’t be able to reproduce.

Oh, but that’s part of God’s plan, right?

Maybe it is. But infertility certainly isn’t normal, by society’s standards, is it? Following that train of thought, birth defects aren’t normal. She said being gay isn’t normal; so would you tell people with birth defects or people who had dysfunctional reproductive systems that they were going to Hell because they’re not normal?

Would you tell someone who had a certain pigment of skin or a certain colour to their eyes that they were going to Hell because of how they were born, with that skin colour, and those eyes?

If you would do that, then you’re a rotten person. But no; you wouldn’t tell someone they were going to Hell just because of how they were born.

I hate to break it to you non-believers out there, but being gay is something you’re born with. I didn’t learn to be queer. No one around me was gay, there wasn’t gay media on the television when I was growing up (not that I was exposed to, anyway), there was nothing. I just found out I had a crush on a girl in seventh grade. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it. I took it in stride, just like I’d done with the boy I had a crush on in sixth grade. Kept it to myself, because that’s what I did.

I found out later that being gay was a thing. Girls who liked girls and boys who liked boys were “different.” I didn’t think anything of it when my mother asked “are there any cute boys at school?” and she didn’t ask about girls. I just said “no” how I always did and carried on with my life.

It’s not a grand revelation, realising that you’re gay. At least, it wasn’t for me. Kind of like how you just know your hair is blonde; you know you like boys, or you like girls, or you like both. I know that I have a constellation of small moles on my left arm by my elbow; I know that my arms over-extend; I know that the first thing I look at on a girl is her eyes, the second her smile, the third thing her hair; I know that my favourite fruits are Valencia oranges, mangoes, and pomegranates. It’s just a fact about yourself that you just know. I don’t know how else to explain it.

But anyway. I’ve ranted myself out for today. A little abrupt on the cut-off here, but I think I have to go downstairs and do some chores. But I wanted to post something today, so here it is. Hope you enjoyed.

Any thoughts or comments, do let me know. If anyone wants to discuss this topic further, I’m all ears.

Until next time, dear readers.

Sam, signing off.

Father-Daughter Fishing

My Papa came home from work yesterday and asked immediately if I wanted to go fishing before Mum came home. Naturally, although I was taken a little by surprise, I said yes. Because I love fishing, and I would leap at the chance of spending some quality time with my dad; we never get enough of that these days.

Now, I haven’t been alone with my father for any significant amount of time in several years, aside from the occasional car ride. Usually when I get stuck somewhere alone with either one of my parents, I get extremely anxious, because I’m always afraid they’re going to start asking the awkward sorts of questions that you don’t want to answer.

I think I’ve done a good job dodging the relationship-related questions, though, because I have a girlfriend, and while my parents both know about it, my father is conservative and doesn’t really agree with the whole same-sex-relationships thing. But he accepts me, and that’s great; he just doesn’t want to talk about it. Which, I suppose, is good. I think.

Anyway, we prepped our rods and went to a pair of man-made lakes about five minutes from my house, cast our lines, and had a nice couple of hours to ourselves. It was nice.

He caught a Northern; I got a few bites, but no catches. We found a lot of large, empty snail shells, and saw a ton of turtles in one of the lakes; the turtles are good  indicators of the structure of the lake, though.

Main point is that it was just really nice to spend some one-on-one, quality time with my dad. The oldest of my two brothers hates fishing, and the youngest one likes it but hates going outside. Dad said I’m a lot more like him than either of my brothers are, which I took as a compliment, because he’s always been a big inspiration for me throughout my life. Not because he’s a bit of a bigot, and kind of an arsehole; I mean, I’m more than a bit gay. Obviously we have different values as far as social issues go. But he’s a hard worker, he’s tough as nails, and he’s a fantastic father.

It was really nice to spend that time with him yesterday. He has a couple weeks off work starting Monday, so hopefully we’ll get to go out again next week and fish some more. Maybe I’ll catch something next time.

Sam, signing off.

My Seat at the Window

A little over ten years ago, the house I currently live in was owned by my grandmother and step-grandfather on my Papa’s side, and had been owned by them since my father was small; he grew up in this house. When I was around five or six years old, my parents moved into the upstairs of this house with myself and the older of my two brothers; the youngest hadn’t been born yet. We weren’t here for a terribly long time before we moved into another house a block away, but I remember how the room that my brother and I currently share housed all four of us at one point, and the room we now use as the “craft room” was our sitting room. It was almost like an upstairs apartment for us. We had a separate address, our own bathroom, our own kitchen.

My bed, at the time, was in the dormer, as it was small enough to fit there, and my parent’s bed was in the centre of the room. My brother slept in the bed with them most nights, because he was still just a baby, and some nights he would be put in his crib next to the bed.

Fast-forward about five years, and my family of five was moving back into the house again, except we were taking ownership of the entire place, seeing as my grandmother had passed away, and my step-grandfather moved away. And thus, the upstairs became my room (though I chose to share the downstairs room with my two brothers for several years). One perk of the upstairs room that I failed to notice when I was younger, was the dormer; the same dormer that my bed had been in when I was small.

In an attempt to get me interested in the room upstairs, my parents painted it pink (because I used to like that colour, believe it or not), gave me a bed with pretty bedsheets, decked out my closet, did what renovations they could afford on the bathroom for me, and built a windowseat in the dormer.

I never appreciated the windowseat and how fucking perfect it is until a couple years ago; and by then it was a bit too late, as I was leaving for university.

Just today, I took my brother out to a craft store and spent just over $100 on thick cushioning and fabric to make a cushion for the windowseat, because we never got around to putting any padding on it, because I wasn’t interested in it as a kid. Before today, I just piled some blankets on the wood seat when I came home for the summer so I could sit in relative comfort. But I finally got an actual cushion on the bloody seat, and I swear to God, it is the best fucking thing in the world.

I get a fantastic view of the birdfeeders out in front of my house from up here, and the street, and the moon at night. The window has a screen on the outside, so I keep it open for the fresh air and gentle breeze. I can hear the birds and people playing; I mentioned all of this in a post a couple days ago. But it’s so nice, and so true, and worth repeating. I love this. I just wish I’d utilized it more as a kid, because it’s so, so nice.

I’ll just have to love the hell out of it this summer; and when I get my own home someday, you can bet your arse I’m building myself a bloody windowseat.

Sam, signing off.